


Militant Intent

by madasthehatterforalice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark John Watson, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 12:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12888129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madasthehatterforalice/pseuds/madasthehatterforalice
Summary: John's on a mission and he doesn't care who gets in his way.





	Militant Intent

It had been nearly 2 years since a black car had pulled up beside John Watson yet he found he was no more surprised this time than he was the last. As if a small back portion of his mind had always been open to this possibility. Though this time when he entered it was Mycroft himself who awaited him, not his enigmatic aide.

“A mutual friend requires a lift home,” he said without preamble, handing over a plain file, “I believe you are just the man for the job.”

John pondered darkly over the thought that they didn’t have a “mutual friend,” not any more, but he took the file anyway. The information contained within spread over nearly a dozen countries with even more names, but it was only one that relit a fire through his heart that he thought had long been smothered to ash by grief.

Life before Sherlock had been a cold purposeless thing, life after him even more so. How strange it was that it was only after his fuel had been taken away that John even realized he’d been on _fire_. Now, that flame blazed to life like a forest after drought, consuming him completely. The knowledge of Sherlock’s situation burned the inferno white. A heat so fierce it froze.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat, motionless, transfixed by that singular name only that he had yet to verbalize a response when the car came to a stop.

“I trust you can take it from here?” Mycroft intoned, like he hadn’t just handed John back his life in a single manila folder.

“What makes you think I won’t kill him myself?” John said finally, thinking back on 2 years of blinding, life-ending grief.

“If you were capable of that,” Mycroft smirked, it was a wholly Holmes trait, that unholy smirk like they knew every-bloody-thing, “I believe you would have done so long before we could have found ourselves here.”

“Don’t suppose you know what I am capable of,” John replied as he exited the vehicle, nerves already preparing for the task ahead. The door closed with a satisfying thud before Mycroft could respond.

Much of John was left behind in that forgettable black car. He was still John Watson, doctor, soldier, but he forewent the empathy, morality, and restraint that went along with them, instead he allowed himself to be taken over by the detachment of the doctor and the ruthlessness of the soldier. In short, he tucked his broken heart away in order to make it whole. Heaven help anyone who thought of getting in his way.

The first to meet that fate was the assassin he’d unwittingly been sharing his dank shamble of a life with. She made for a weapon hidden in her groceries when he’d announced his intent. In his single-mindedness her betrayal barely registered, even after he’d pulled the trigger. He finished his packing, her weapon and everything of value they had accumulated shoved into an additional bag as he went. When he was done he locked the door behind him before kicking it back in and tossed the bag of their lives into a bin as he made his way to his next location. Without his wayward detective’s assistance no one had any hope of determining it to be anything other than an unfortunate robbery.

The next was a guileless reporter, a bit too loyal to his long dead employer to give John the information he’d so _politely_ asked for. John didn’t spare much thought for him after. Muggings were so regrettably common in urban centers.

He did not make any particular note of any of the others that fell before him, only the information they provided, only the progress towards his goal.

When he’d reached the end, saw the tattered state Sherlock was being kept in, he nearly regretted the swiftness of his Browning, longing momentarily for the slow ease of his scalpel. His veins were ice, the cold fire of untouched steel. He entered the room and immediately took out the man to the left. He fired the shot without thinking, without feeling, without regret. He would raze the _world_ to the ground before any of them could stand between him and his detective. He’d proved it more times than he’d bothered to note on his journey and he would not let up with his aim so literally in sight.

 “This is me asking nicely,” he said without real pause, smiling cruelly as the remaining men responded in their native tongue.

Another shot fired, this time into minion 2, much the same as the first.

“And this is me insisting,” he continued, gun leveled at the head of the man standing behind Sherlock. He’d lowered the whip but it was clear what he’d been using it for. John felt his patience meet its end.

A stead shot between the eyes and his quest was through.

John simply rolled his shoulders, lowering his gun before crossing the room.

“Not John,” Sherlock slurred, even as John released his chains, “John’s not coming, John thinks I’m dead.”

That statement was the first thing, since this whole ordeal had started, that gave him pause but he didn’t linger on it. Instead he leveraged Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder, bearing as much of the taller man’s weight as he could.

It wasn’t until John had gotten them back to the rundown room he’d been crashing in, and well into his undertaking of stitching up the lashings on Sherlock’s back, did Sherlock emerge into coherency. Not that he said anything at first. But John watched the brightness return to his eyes as they danced about the room, absorbing every detail, before landing, at last, on John.

For a long time, Sherlock just looked at him, likely reading everything John had endured in his absence, a task John knew from experience needed no input from him so he continued sewing.

 John knew what Sherlock must see in his eyes. No hesitation, no regret. John’s survival dictated Sherlock’s and desperate creatures are capable of just about anything to ensure their survival.

The stitches formed neat, tender rows along his skin. Dispassionate was the farthest thing from what he felt for Sherlock, from what he had ever felt for Sherlock. His broken heart was making itself known once again, impossible to deny in Sherlock’s presence.

When he’d finished John moved to clear away his supplies but was stopped by a hand on his. Finally, he met Sherlock’s gaze.

“I-I had no idea,” Sherlock began, clearing his throat and starting over, “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea you would be so affected.”

John let out a sad chuckle.  Of course, he hadn’t, John hadn’t even known just how _deeply_ he cared until Sherlock was suddenly gone. “Nor did I.”

“Where do we go from here, then?”

There was really only one answer for that. “Home,” John replied, “We go home.”


End file.
